“I want you to come to my bed willingly.” She shook her head, but he reached out and took hold of her hand, folding it in his much larger grip. “Think about it, Yasmin. You’ll be coming to my bed anyway. I prefer not to have to fight you to get what I want. Give in to me and I’ll let your family know you’re safe. I might even let you talk to them.”

Oh God, he’d added the one incentive she couldn’t say no to. She was willing to do a lot to hear her parent’s voices again. Even though it’d only been a few days since she spoke to them, it felt like weeks had passed.

“Alright,” she said, her throat dry. Using her free hand, she took another sip of her Champagne.

“Tonight.” His eyes gleamed with anticipation as he set her execution time.

“Will you let me speak to my parents tonight?” she asked bravely.

“This isn’t a negotiation, Yasmin.” He crushed her hand in his and leaned closer. “You will come to my bed tonight. How you behave in my bed will dictate whether I allow you to speak to your parents at a later date.”

She wanted to back out so badly. To tell him she couldn’t do it. She didn’t want him, was actively afraid of him. Instead, she thought of her family, told herself it was no big deal, just sex, and said, “Yes, Volkan.”

Before he could reply, the server arrived at their table with steaming bowls of tomato bisque soup. Once again, it would seem Volkan had ordered for them before they’d even arrived. She wondered if this was a precursor to her future. Never allowed to make her own decisions and negotiating sex for favours.

That last thought had her gulping the rest of the Champagne in her glass. Volkan refilled it. She eyed the bottle. Maybe she should get drunk. She didn’t drink often so it wouldn’t take much. She was already feeling the lull of the alcohol. Her head was fuzzy, and she felt relaxed despite the constant tension between herself and her dinner companion.

“This will be your last glass,” Volkan said smoothly, picking up his spoon and dipping it into his soup. He had a knack for reading her thoughts.

“Tell me,” she said, summoning up as much bravery as she could. “Is this the life you imagine having with me? Dictating my every move? Telling me what to eat and drink, what to wear, even what to say. It seems to me that if you liked me for myself, you wouldn’t be trying so hard to change me.”

He stopped eating, carefully placing his spoon in his soup and meeting her challenging stare with a cool gaze. “You know better than that.”

“Do I? So far, you’ve dictated my wardrobe and jewellery. What’s next? My makeup?”